Finding everyday magic

Tag: grandmother

Mildred Lorraine Palmer Gough Tebbs (there will be three more last names added to that string before she takes her final bow). Also known as my maternal grandmother. She’s probably 42 in this photo. She’s feisty, out-spoken, opinionated, prefers men to women in all cases and loves a good cocktail.

Paul Tebbs, my grandfather and stepfather to my mother, although she will always consider him her true father. He is a man of few words and will speak up only when it will benefit someone else. He’s an engineer by day and raises cattle for fun on the weekends. He loves good cigars, which will eventually kill him. He’s 48 here.

My mother. Helen Louise Gough Tebbs Grimes. She believed she was controlled by her domineering mother until she met my father, who ripped the puppet strings right out of Mildred’s hands. Although, while everyone was still alive the mastery would pass back and forth between hands. She’s creative, talented and beautiful, but it’s not enough. She taught herself to like scotch but would prefer a glass of wine. She’s about 22 here. And I’m probably 11 minutes old.

Donald Earl Grimes, about 36 in this photo. Too intelligent for anyone’s good, charming, sarcastic with a side of mean, always right and incredibly artistically talented. And married. Not to my mother. With three daughters. Of which I am the youngest and the only one belonging to my mother. Oh, and he also loves a good cocktail.

I have no idea what occasion would put them all in such close proximity, but I would almost guarantee a minimum of one high ball each has been had. If gin is involved things will begin to deteriorate rapidly. My grandfather will begin to play interference and eventually guide my grandmother out the door or to bed. My mother will tug at my father’s pant leg or laugh, tilt her head and then say, we really should be going, or it’s getting late, but her words will evaporate before they reach the sensible part of his brain. The situation may escalate, words spat with enough venom to start a revolution. But there will be no apologies the next day or the next time they’re all in the same room. It never happened. And it will happen again.

Even so, I love this photo. For what it says as much as for what it hides.

Instagram didn’t invent The Brightside, it just offers a few more filters.

There’s something reassuring about handling every single thing in my home. I have begun to purge a few things as I’m going through them, and as much as I’d like to halve the number of items that belong to my husband, I am leaving that up to him. With a few pointed questions, sarcastic faces and “whatever you think” kinda tactics. It works for a while.

When I think about counting the next space my whole body droops a little, but once I start something happens. An appreciation and sense of gratitude for all that I do have softens everything.

The guest room is quite possibly my favorite room in the whole house. It’s light and clean and has a lot of my most beloved things. There’s a hutch with a recessed glass upper cabinet and lower cabinet with solid doors. Oak, I think. Not my favorite wood, but it’s dark and feels sturdy and strong. It was in my Great uncle’s home and when he passed I got my pick of anything. This piece just speaks to me.

Inside the glass cabinet are all those curios that have no real place anywhere else:

Dolls my grandmother made and some she brought back from exotic locations

A stuffed representation of our schnauzer growing up with his actual collar.

A mug from Italy that belonged to the twin brother of the uncle who left me his stuff.

A carved cigarette holder that belonged to my grandmother. I can see her holding it and laughing with her head thrown back, a highball in the other gloved hand, Auntie Mame.

A house that doubles as a music box my dad brought me from Bermuda.

Some random items we have picked up because they spoke to us, that we will likely pass along soon to make room for new treasures.

The bottom of this piece holds a trove of other items with no permanent home. These will likely be purged down to a more manageable few.

The things that we are attached to, even for just short time, deserve a place in our lives, in our homes, if they bring us joy and help us recall a special time or person.

This was never about blindly tossing non-essential items. It is about being mindful of what I decide to keep. Mindful of who I pass things along to. And especially mindful of anything I choose to bring in.

I expected to find things that clung to my ankle as I walked out on them and they are showing up. Especially here in this room. They may just stay. At least some of them, at least for a while.

I didn’t count the hangers the hanging clothes were hanging on. In the interest of thoroughness the total is now up to: 2,661.